Thursday, 5 March 2015

Don't Believe The Skype

Technology is great. It means I can check the weather on my
phone without having to even open the curtains, I can watch telly and not
really take in what’s happening because I’m too busy tweeting about it on my
laptop and I can judge the lifestyle choices of ex-schoolmates via Facebook
while I sit around in my pyjamas on a Wednesday afternoon, wondering if I’ve
already seen this episode of Escape To The Country.

Technology is bloody everywhere and, because actors are
bloody everywhere too, it was only a matter of time before the two worlds
collided. It’s hard to tell whether this has been a good thing or not. On one
hand, I can now apply for acting roles that I’m never going to get at the click
of a button but, on the other hand, I can’t check my phone without seeing I’ve
been invited to like yet another actor’s Facebook fan page. NO I DO NOT NEED TO
KNOW ABOUT THE THREE AMAAAAAZZZZZIIIIIING AUDITIONS YOU’VE HAD TODAY
#SOBLESSED #ACTORSLIFE

But the biggest impact the world of technology has had on
casting (apart from, OBVIOUSLY, film, TV and the fact that we can now obviously
be both seen and heard on screen too now like a particularly irritating Victorian child) is
the introduction of Skype auditions. Now, don’t get me wrong, there’s something
very lovely about not having to leave the house to get work. Anything where
this is an even slight possibility of wearing slippers while auditioning is top banana. But, ultimately, Skype auditions are a proper pain.

Imagine, if you will, that you were called up one morning
and they told you that instead of coming into the office for your interview,
the panel had decided to come to your house instead. One, on a reasonably slow
day, that would probably make the national news and, two, your house will never
look as grubby as when you realise someone who doesn’t live there is going to
be seeing it for the first time.

Just like you’re never more than 6 feet away from a rat or 2
feet away from an out of work actor, you’re never more than a camera pan away
from a laden clothes horse, much-neglected plant or patch of damp wall in our flat. So, time that
should be spent preparing is instead spent finding the one camera angle that is
well-lit, doesn’t include your pants drying in the background and stops the
director being distracted by the mold visibly creeping along the wall behind
you.

And then there’s making yourself the living embodiment of
‘all dressed up with nowhere to go.’ There’s something rather heart-breaking
about spending the best part of an hour doing your hair and make-up and picking
the perfect outfit to just make the 3 second trip for your bedroom to the
living room.

Then, of course, there’s praying to the Internet Gods that
your flaky broadband holds out, roping in the elderly lady from across the road
to read in the other part and hoping the daily Jehovah’s Witnesses don’t come
by in the next 7 minutes.

But all this is nothing compared to what you actually have
to do...

That is a genuine list of requirements that I’ve seen for a
Skype interview. Now, I know actors can be worse than piles when it comes to
being pains in the arse but an actor has had to have done something seriously
awful to you to make them go through that. And actors will have put themselves
through it. Actors will have shamelessly paraded around their living room,
finally putting their copy of The Complete Works of Shakespeare to good use by
precariously balancing it on their heads while they wonder if they're now meant to show their best moves while it's still teetering up there.

Now, thankfully, I didn’t do this particular audition but I
did put myself through something vaguely similar. I received an email last year asking
if I’d do a self-tape to apply for a role in a music video. They wanted it done
by the end of the day. Fine. I wasn’t doing much else that day and, thankfully,
my boyfriend was on hand to film it for me. I opened up the instructions. They
wanted me to be dressed in smart business attire, put money into a vending
machine and pull out a branch. This was already too much effort for someone who had been holding a wee in for the last 30 minutes because they couldn't be bothered to get up. I read on. They then wanted me to move
to a photocopier, switch it on and be amazed at all the weird photos coming out
of it. And they wanted all of that in one 30 second video. If it went over,
they said that they'd refuse to watch it. Oh for crying out loud…

I refused to actually find somewhere with a vending machine
and photocopier to film the damn thing and was determined to do it all at home.
The next two hours were then spent with me putting together an outfit that
looked vaguely like what I’ve seen people on TV wear in offices and rearranging
our study to basically hide everything in it. The photocopier was to be played by our knackered
old printer. The vending machine - a wardrobe full of sheets and pillows. This
was about as convincing as an actor saying they know the different between
stage left and stage right without having to think about it first.

I already knew this wasn’t going to work.

First take – 30 seconds has gone by and I’ve only just
established that I’m a bored office worker trying to get a drink out of my
wardrobe vending machine.

Second take – I realise the ridiculousness of pretending to
put a coin in a wardrobe.

Third take – I manage to get to the point where I
quizzically look at the branch (played admirably by Thin Air) and then 30
seconds is up.

Fourth take – frustrated by this point, I race through it at
such an angry speed that I’ve done the whole thing in 18 seconds.

Fifth take – like my last day of woodwork class in Year 9, I'm as close to nailing it as I'll ever be. The whole scene comes in
at 31 seconds. I’ve already decided the email I'll be sending to Watchdog if they dare complain.

Then it’s back into pyjamas (I leave the make up on because
I never do it this nicely and damn me if I’m wasting the time and effort spent
on not looking like a clown) to then faff around with WeTransfer for the rest of my life. 4 hours. 4 bloody hours the whole debacle took.